School Dinners

Och its offay frightenin. ah cannae believe how big they forks are, aw stabbin doon at us. the forks an the knives an the spoons aw cutting an choppin oor bodies up intae bits. Ah hear it yisee, cos we’ve aw got the throughspeak. It’s whit we are here, in the hall.

Ah wis hearin fae the spicy pakora oan the aer side. cheers whenivir wan ae thum smashes a plate. Chipped broon wooden trays were sayin tae plates, “dinnae leave me” an feelin the scrape, the give, the centre fallin oot. Then air, then smash, then aw ay thum shoutin, an laughin at wan ay oor lot dyin. Bits skiddin an disappearin under the dark places. the lunchboxes bein clicked open, shut. Polite hubbub ay noise.  

Thur voices are offay weird. They dinnae speak like us: jist wan tae wan. Getting allowed in wan at a time by yon “prefects.” hierarchies already in place.

Wan ay them goat stung by a wasp: wis aw screamin an cryin. Noo they ken jist a wee bit ay how it feels. Wasp wis laughin, telt us aw aboot it.

Custard is screamin. solidifying under the lights denied its natural consistency. vomitous melt, sufferin. Spooned intae the bowls which dinnae like it either. Then awaw tae the other place. Wi thum.

Ye sense the the fear ae thum also the nervousness aboot goin intae the hall when the hall is nearly empty and the food is nearly all dead. Nae sounds apart fae bubblin an gurgling. Meat lettin oot juices. Last gasps ay intelligence. Some ae the meats remember their last times as they die. Huvvin the legs, like thum.

Tryin tae avoid each other. the wans they dinnae like, the wans they dinnae trust. Some ay them will kill each other. Chlorine in the baths, that comes tae us.

Teachers the “high-up heid yins” aw cordoned oaf at thur ain tables. Click-clack ay the cutlery. Swallow-slurp. Noise noise.

Aw the trapped smell, smell ay evvrythin. Smell ay us livin an dying. Smell ae plastic and nae air. Wannae ken whit that is: smell ay fear. Oor journey intae afterlife. Food intae trash. Or whitivver comes next.

Steam behind the hot plate, curtain ae oor origin. The milkshakes shakin in thur cups. Squeaky noise ay thur feets oan the floor. Caramel shortbread says thir’s no much left. cracked chocolate an bleeding caramel, stuck tae thur mouths, goin doon intae the belly where we aw begin tae begin again.

Tuna sangwitches in wan ay the “computer rooms.” The report wis not good. The enemy wis playin a game where wee animals chucked themselves oaf a cliff. Death aw the way.

Some ay them go roond the corner shop where they say, dae ye want red sauce or broon sauce. Both ur the same.

If ye were born tae die… then ye dinnae huv tae be afraid ay dyin.

But we ur. we ur.

‘A Great Sense Of Emotionality’

full transcript of talk by ufologist H. WYLSON HURLE at Falkirk Transformation Symposium, Aug 23rd, 2013

Are we recording? Is…

(extended pause - staff adjust the microphone)

Is that it? Are we good to go? Right! Okay. Well. Hello there all of you. Good to see everyone’s made it.

Now. For those of you in the audience who aren’t quite up to speed, my name is H. Wylson Hurle. I am forty-eight years old. I have been researching the paranormal for well over seventy-two years now. Which is even more unbelievable if you take into consideration the fact that my true light body was first incarnated in the year 2136. Certain people have told me this and I promise I will tell you why later.

Now. We are going to get on to the lockstep humanoids. Now this is one of the stranger developments of recent years. They’re walking after you. When you’re on the street. Stalking you from afar, in two by two. Have you caught the reptilian slant in their eyes? The blankness! The… insouciance. I think that’s the word. They look like people – like us! But they’re not from here.

What we’re talking about this evening is – the copies. They’re clones, you see. The ones who are copied, are. They’re copies of the copies – of the original copies, who are genetic crossbreeds from the secret underground base beneath Berkshire. It’s true! I know all about this. I was a security guard down there for years. Nineteen and a half to be precise. The pay was pretty good, all things considering. I mean, it wasn’t hard work exactly – it was quite a secret base. Nobody was looking. And it was underground, so nobody ever really managed to find it. I was basically just hanging around. The worst bit was having to deal with all the extraterrestrials there.

I mean, forgive me for being blunt here but… see them giant praying mantis ones? What a bunch of absolute fucking cunts, by the way. I mean. Picture it. You’d just be down there, in the secret base, trying to go about your business doing secret things. And the bastards’d be up there. Just hanging off the roof  like fucking moths. Freaks you out, by the way. Like they’re having a laugh with us humans. Tell you what, the giant praying mantis types… don’t want to be rude, but oh, terrible conversationalists, they were. All they ever did was chirrup. Gossips, the lot of them.

Aye, well anyways, they let me go from the base for medical reasons cos I was having problems down below, if you know what I mean. It’s funny, really - because even though I was actually having problems down below… on a larger scale… I was really having ‘problems down BELOW!’

(Pause. Silence from audience)

Ha. Just my little joke. It’s true though.

But… yes. Returning us to the key thrust of this lecture, then… right. So There’s these programmable generated life forms. Which are grown underground. Trained in MK-ULTRA mind control tactics. Capable of killing a human with just their brains from six miles away. Sounds unbelievable, I know. But you’ve been shopping in Sainsbury’s, right? You’ve seen the cashiers. Oh yes! They might look cold, robotic and emotionless, but some of them are sadistic too. Sometimes they will just murder cows and horses for sport, go up to them in a field and just stand around, pouring in their corrosive mind beams until the poor defenceless animal just explodes in a meat market of decapitated limbs and gore. It really is pretty seriously awful, the things they do.

And then the lockstep humanoids will march into the effluent outcome of their carnage and crouch down in pairs to blood themselves, rubbing the splattery gore into their chiselled, perfect features. I’ve been told by a very reputable source that this is actually how they hunt on their worlds. They’re doing it here now, because of course, this ties into the wider plan, the big main story that’s going on here with the jelly.

Yes ladies and gentlemen, the jelly! Well, wait, I’ll get to that. Cos this is very important information we need to get out.

(Hurle responds to question from audience)

Where do I get my information? Ah well, you see. The question! This is the question they always ask. Well, madam. I get my information mainly from psychics. But I’m not a psychic myself. I’m a HGV driver by trade now, and it’s a provable fact that we are exactly the sort of people the controllers target for victimization, gangstalking and gaslighting. Those outside of the normal acceptable areas of life. Because that’s all part of the disinformation. They’re trying to make us all look like a bunch of paranoid loonies!

Not the illuminati people though. They don’t get any of this bother. Let me tell you!

And I can see you’re all looking a bit frightened now. Oh yes. Illuminati! Don’t pretend that word doesn’t put the willies up you. Well it’s my life I’m putting on the line here! My safety I’m compromising! The illuminati have been putting the willies on me for many, many years now.

(inaudible question from audience)

No, The lockstep humanoids don’t do much of the gangstalking themselves. Usually they’re too busy in the bases. Or out using their brains to make cats blow up. They do that as well. Now, I can see this is a key concern of people so yes, I will address it. So. Who does the stalking? Well - usually they send the supermodels.

Anne told me this the other week – she’s one of the main psychics I refer to in the book and we’ll get to that in a moment. She was at a fashion show, cos she’s involved in that. And she was told on very good authority that all supermodels – all of them, male and female – are in actuality Nordic space people from the Sirius star system. A lot of them live here now. I mean, come on now…

(laughter)

Have you seen them, though? Bony, expressionless zombies, storming along the catwalk in the robotic manner? That’s the lockstep thing. If anyone ever tells you they‘re ‘in fashion,’ I would just become very suspicious and just walk the other way.

Usually they’re psychically linked pairs. See, Anne thinks this is why everyone in the fashion industry is so weird. You’ll notice this in the service industry, in the supermarkets too, when the cashiers are calling over to the person at the next till to price-check an item. It’s because they’re linked. Cos they’re either nonhuman, or, at the very least… controlled by the nonhumans. I mean, why else do they dress the models like that? In all those weird clothes, that’s supposed to be what everyone cool is wearing, but all the girls are walking about topless with weird gigantic hats and see-through plastic face masks and bits of metal on their shoulders. I mean, come on… the girls have got their tits out for gods sake! And dead animals round their necks! And the men have got like, stickers on their nipples and cowboy chaps. Ever wonder why that was? Curious, is it not?

Well, I’ll tell you now! It’s because that’s how they dress on their planets of origin. They’re genetically predisposed to going about with very little or no clothes on at all! This was in the contract they signed with the clandestine new world order officials who allowed them to stay here and live and work in the bases! In exchange for their technology and knowledge, the powers-that-be agreed that a small number of them would infiltrate the fashion industry in order to slowly inculcate the wider population into becoming accustomed to the idea of their creepy, skeletal silver-clad forms walking about here! It makes perfect sense when you stop to think about it!

Anne learned most of this at a fashion show in 1987, when she was working as a seamstress for Jean Paul Gaulthier which I’d say makes her account all the more credible. One of the alien humanoids there came right up to her and actually initiated psychic mind link. Unfortunately there’s sometimes a translation issue with the direct psychic interface between humans and the Nordic space people, so usually it all just automatically gets translated into Swedish. I think this is the root of why these aliens are referred to as Nordics. Now luckily, Anne memorized all the information and had it translated later. That’s when she discovered the true facts about the jelly.

(murmurs from audience)

The jelly is a sentient, hermaphroditic, self-replicating fluidic intelligence. I have a number of sources – corroborating accounts, mind – who are firmly convinced that if you now buy jelly from the supermarket – actual, ordinary jelly – then some if that is ALIEN jelly. And if you eat it, it will migrate to the base of your brainstem and control you. Making you a zombie puppet to their terrifying whims - like something off of bodysnatchers. Jelly. I mean… We’re not safe.

Now this tale… is completely… mental. By which I mean, to an extent, it is happening on a mental level. Anne actually said to me, that once this space woman had given her this information – right at the end of it, once she’d ended the psychic link - this space woman opened her mouth and said, in English, this chilling phrase: ‘I don’t think you’re ready for this jelly.’ I find that detail particularly disturbing.

And because people need to be told the reasons why they should be vigilant about these dark beings lurking in our midst, I have written this…

(Hurle holds up volume)

My fourteenth book – or it might the fifteenth, come to think of it – which is called, ‘Beyond The Unknown Within: Exploring The Exopolitical Paradigm of Intra-Transient Communications.’ I know, that must sound like a bit of a mouthful for you all out there, but I feel you need to get the material out there. So, I’d just like to give you all an exclusive preview of some of the things I go into in this volume. I further detail the accounts of Anne, who is, I’d suggest, quite a seminal witness. Her experiences with the Nordics have seen her channelling abilities develop quite dramatically. Although I hear this is giving her some problems with her television, as it keeps jumping from BBC4 to the Adult Channel for some reason. And let’s face it, nobody wants that. Just more mind games from the Nordics, they love a bit of mind games!

Now Anne’s a very religious woman, as those of you who’ve read her book will know. I write about her book in my book, but naturally I give the story some fresh insight. Last year – and I write about this in very great depth – Anne would be visited every night of the week by a being. Now, this being was not in solid form as we would know it, this was a spiritual energy. And we don’t know if its intentions were entirely benevolent. This being would come to Anne, entering her bedroom. Except not all of the body would be visible. Sometimes it was just a floating male head – although more often than not, usually just the crotchal region, which was just the area around the hips. The apparition would never possess an upper half, the torso area, but yet somehow, still it would be wearing a bra. Which was to put it mildly, a very unusual state of affairs, make no mistake. And as this being entered the room, Anne would find herself overcome with a great sense of emotionality. And with her strong beliefs regarding the Bible, the power of this being… she told me, folks, with tears streaming down her face… she felt high and she was vibrating with the love energy. And it was as if Christ had somehow come inside her – as if he was putting his love inside her!

But of course, not everyone can be open to these experiences. For Anne would try again and again to tell her husband Frank about this… and every time she would talk to him, a glazed and vacant expression came over his face and it was as if he wasn’t paying attention to anything she was saying. Now, I’ve noticed this effect happening before and I can only surmise that this is the aliens actively preventing people from getting their message out into the world via their devious mind control.

I must also mention the story of an anonymous gentleman called Henry Clark, who is absolutely convinced that he has courted and subsequently fathered a son with an alien woman – although Henry sees his child very infrequently. They come from very different worlds – literally. He’s had to move to Birmingham for work and they’re on a planet called Eera-Ook in the Pleiades. Apparently the commute’s a nightmare and the faster-than-light travel makes him carsick. Well, it would, you know?

And just to conclude this part for now, there’s the testimonial of Karl McHugh, which is a deeply fascinating story. Karl McHugh is an alias by the way, although I’m spelling his first and second names differently in order to protect his identity. His first conscious encounter took place roughly three weeks ago and luckily I managed to get it into the book at the last minute.

So. Karl was out, innocently walking his Chihuahuas in the local park, when all of a sudden he has this feeling, which will be quite familiar to a lot of you, I think, of being ‘activated.’ In fact, Karl told me he was ‘turned on.’ So now, he feels strangely drawn to a particular area of town. Before you know it, he was outside a glowing archway which he now with hindsight thinks must have been their ship. As if in a trance, he stepped on board the vessel and found himself in a dark, ominous environment, utterly alien to his experience. All around were strange flashing lights and this pounding industrial rhythmic noise - almost like music!

At this point Karl was approached by a number of Nordic alien males, who were engaged in an eerie occult dance which he said was quite queer to behold. His primary recollection was that most of them were incredibly muscular and dressed in leather – which seems to be quite a common uniform for them. Some had moustaches, which is less common in witness reports… but these ones did. Some of them, also, were very androgynous in appearance - I mean, with these beings, you just can’t tell what they are!

One of them presented Karl with an unusual fizzing potion that made him feel unexpectedly dizzy. Now he was in an altered state, very much in thrall to their whims. That’s the mind control in action again, by the way…

Karl remembers very little after he was encouraged to partake of the strange drink, but his next conscious recollection was waking up behind a bush, back in the park where the encounter had first begun, with his Chihuahuas still there and looking at him in a state of very deep confusion. Although, after returning home weary and exhausted, Karl did find a souvenir from his experience in his jacket pocket. And I have this artefact from another world with me tonight, ladies and gentlemen. And here… it is.

(HURLE produces the object)

Now, what I believe we’re looking at here is some very sophisticated stuff. I will soon be approaching some proper actual scientists to see if they can have a look at this and verify whether or not this device is in fact made out of materials not common to Earth. Our suspicion is that this is either a small scale model of the alien vessel, or perhaps even some kind of power source.

(The device begins to vibrate)

And – oh… ladies and gentlemen, this is quite disturbing – this machine suddenly seems to be coming into activation… and – good grief… the shaft of it… is vibrating! Quite rapidly! Ladies and gentlemen… I do believe we might all right now be experiencing… a new vibration of humanity!

(various sounds of movement as guests leave the hall)

Psychogeographical Field Trip - City Construct: Eden Burrow

MINDLINK PENDING… achieved  

UPLOAD OF HYPERLENSES PENDING… achieved

Transtemporal mission log - uploaded by Chronosentry Quinsar (Cydonia node of Psycojog Empire).

The primary outcome of this incursion onto enemy territory is to assess opportunities for Psycojog invasion of the humanoid construct designated ‘City: Eden Burrow.’ Ideally this will take the form of a stealth-mode invasion across time. Chronosentry lensfindings follow.

(For the purposes of this datablink, the 5 highlighted lenses afford an associative and interconnected cross-section of City in question. Achromatic eight-in-one flashthrough is operational.) 

Mission objective is to identify who will kill the city in the future. Focalized precogging has predicted a multipossible that the city will-and-will-not be destroyed in 2113. A floating undecidable. Many coggers could not handle and selfploded. Now will attempt transtemporal analysis of city health to discover overall fate.

1. Beginning exploration of humanoid construct Eden Burrow. Coordinates locked on to supposed locus of humanoid control mechanisms, ‘Scottish Parliament.’ Also detonation point of Chromobomb that is believed to have destroyed city. Fixed-point touchdown briefly coincides with nightcycle. Cityghost presence strong - one of many warring factions and potential enemy obstructions in city. Many different messages of control are being sent. Engaging psychic countermeasures. Will be necessary to advance interaction with other transtemporal spirit entities.

2. Cityghosts flee to mass around parliament locus. A mechanical island fallen from the sky in the future, a crashed and smouldering wreck. This is ground zero of the blast radius. Cityghosts mine it for intent. They are unseen by the humatons but are constantly at war with them, seeking to obstruct their progress - muddling their message. Being of Small Time, the humatons on this plane operate only as biowalkers - unable to see beyond clockstopped limitations of their realm. Those of Big Time walk above and battle always for supremacy.

3. First signs of biowalker technology designed to obstruct carporters - native vehicular intelligences of city. Also first forthcoming evidence of runespeak - primitive higher language of biowalker mystics. Appropriate use of runespeak allows for basic biowalker access to Big Time consciousness. Nearby at ‘palace of royalty’ there is little indication of consciousness. 

4. Talkboard ‘Everyone home safe every day’ reassures biowalkers that ‘you are here.’ Cognitive dissonance is achieved through deployment of contradictory phrase ‘Can’t: level.’

5. Early signs of city breakage. Ground level is infirm. Wounds in stone flesh attract tubefeeders and cellular infection spreads.

6. CIGS: runespeak acrospell conjured by solitary biowalker mystic. Stands for Cohesive Integrated Gigantic Smashface. I have no further data on this.

7. Speedworm overlane. Talkboard communicating futureslipped message predicts eventual of fate overlane: ‘GIVE WAY.’

8. ‘PERMIT’ runespeak. Allows biowalker passage down assigned travellanes. Big Time intelligences are mainly responsibly for implementation of language-based control systems.

 

9. Having strayed from its designated safe-territories, a balanceboard is time-murdered for attempted lanecrossing. Balanceboards are not permitted to perambulate.

10. Greenfeelers feed on the decaying carcass of an oldpass; re-wiring its travel coordinates. 

11.  Cargo-cult mechanoids, recovered by biowalkers and erected in paean to long-extinct sky-gods.

12. Nuugrafficks engage in slow-time conflict with elder surfaces. The result is a near-permanent stalemate of colour chaos.

13. Deceased Talkboard. Killed by excessive sensitivity to carporter motion.

14. Further extant manifestations of biowalker runespeak.



15. Native animal spirits, summoned via nuugraffick ritual, guard passing humanoids from malicious cityghost intent.

16. Activation of central city defences at site of neverending conflict called ‘Leaf War.’ Designated causal disaster zone. 

17. Armoured buildings attempt to protect their pastselves from cityghost reprogramming. Counter-intuitive interdimensional malware hacks and infects oldstone with self-replicating glassteel nanotech which regenerates city edifices into strange new forms - which echo past impressions without resembling them exactly.

18. Here buildings become sad and detach from gravitational constraints. This ongoing contradiction of time is predicted to cause a chain reaction and culminate in a self-haunting citydeath event in 2113 that will completely annihilate and permanently remove the temporal image of Eden Burrow from the prima worldarc.

19. Walls burn with runespeak layers, illustrating the conflicts of City. Being themselves negative astral imprints of unresolved humaton though processes, the cityghosts are perpetually locked into a cyclical deathmatch with the environment that originally created them - which continues to endure, persist and evolve where they cannot. As it attempts to evolve naturally in co-creation with biowalkers, carporters and other more benevolent spirit intelligences, the indelible shadow of cityghost thought re-writes, overwrites or deletes its memory of earlier versions. 

20. Cybrid Elefffant infantry defend the region on behalf of cityghosts. Henceforth, the cityghosts’ ultimate attacking goal is the deletion of the cityheart at the height of miles: the Remembering Stone Which Endures And Protects City. This wrongtime energy manifests itself as City tries to cloak itself from ghost attack. It is present in the travellane-dwelling biowalkers - many of their number cast adrift by soul mismanagement. Primarily it is in the disruption; drilling, hammering, beeping. Ebb and flow. Noise of City is noise of its beginning and end. 

21. cityghosts have a constant presence and police the travellanes by means of their stopgo system. Stopgos are limited-capacity AIs tasked only with mediating between the oppositional movements of both humanoids and carporters.

22. Leaving the war zone. Carporters are disincorporated mid-flight as they attempt to escape the conflict.

23. In isolated areas outside of the main war zone, small pockets of humaton resistance have managed to use the cityghosts’ own glassteel tech against them. Here a cityghost stands trapped behind an makeshift Armani field; its purpose negated by contradictory ideas of beauty and perfection.

28. This baby binface has been hiding the whole time. It is afraid, but safe.

25. Greenfeelers have solidarity for unchanging homeshapes. The two exchange memories, unite and combine to fight.

26. I am stunned by a message from afar. CHURCH HOUSE is here. CHURCH HOUSE could help turn the tide of this war.

27. CHURCH HOUSE activates runespeak on nearby talkboards. ‘Please treat the trees with care’ incantation gives new power to green feelers.

28. CHURCH HOUSE energy breaks the forced labour camps and frees a million bin faces who join the struggle Overjoyed, the baby binface I previously encountered is reunited with its parental units. 

29. Cityghosts are in retreat. Not for ever but for now. Eternal structures and memory shapes of CHURCH HOUSE are reinstalled and reinstated in new defence of old.

30... 46? I think this is a mistake.

31. City has ended. It gives way to the sea. I have kept ambulating until the die-off; except the city is not dead. It lives and dies in paradox. 

32. City sends me a message. My mission here is accomplished; I must return to the distant bank of stars from whence I came.

33. Another communication - Alien! Rock! Thank you, city! I hope I do your story justice!

34. Initiating launch coordinates. Destination Cydonia node, Psycojog empire. I shall return to Eden Burrow in 100 cycles. Remaining now-peaceful cityghosts send me a goodbye message. It goes, 666,666, 6 66. I’m not sure what that means.

35. Final lens portion. Cityghosts drift on into the night. They raise hands in worship to all that is old, all that is new. Integration. Cities can die but they know how to survive. This one must be kept under watch, always.

A Channeling

I started collecting secrets when I was just six years old.

Some said I was a strange child back then. Those were the words the headmaster muttered to my parents while I waited in the next room; spoken with a certain exasperation that even my small brain could comprehend.

I told everyone in the class I wasn’t human. I was often more exasperated with them than they were with me. For not understanding.

I never slept well at night.

In my dreams, I sensed the vast unknowable thing at the edge of space.

I could see inside it. See its never-ending deserted cities: its airless transport routes. Hear its distant rumbling noise in my ears as I slumbered, its engines still operational. Out there inbetween systems where only darkness lived, it moved. Inexorably; terribly. For years I supposed it was just some deep-seated Freudian nightmare. And deep in its icy, labyrinthine heart, the coffins. The infinite dead.

When I was eight, I went guising. Everyone else called it trick-or-treating but Granny called it guising. This word made more sense when I thought about it, cos you were wearing a disguise.

Granny took me round the doors. I wore an oversized long brown coat and the mask of a monster with one eye. That evening I caught my own reflection in a mirror and was momentarily terrified of that one, all-seeing eye.

When I was thirteen, I saw the school bully picking on another girl. A girl who was much less popular than me. I decided it was only right that I redress the balance. A day or so later, I found the bully in the playground.

I’d never meant to hurt her badly. She lost an eye. Years later other kids would call her Cyclops and trip her up in the corridor. I was never blamed. Children can be cruel.

I was probably four when I first saw the moonlit people. It’s hard to remember; the memory is sketchy around that age. They would arrive gaily by night and silently dance around, while showing me the bedroom cinema - pictures of the past and future flickering on my wall at 3am like old projected cinefilm.

They showed me final times. The ends of the earth. I felt the planet’s death throes. Witnessed plains burning - the slaughter of dissidents: their bloodied corpses heaped in market squares. All this, as the moonlit people danced for me. Those twilit hours - years compressed into sleeping decades gone - were my education. My destiny.

The last time came when I was 18. Mum had been in one of her moods and I hadn’t been much better. I don’t blame her for that. You are who you are. You can’t change.

I went up the hillside, away from the village. I did used to love it up there. Especially when it was cold. I used to like it when the wind ripped through your clothes: an elemental force. I’d go up there in silence.

Stumbling over rocks, I saw one. In the flesh. It danced for me. Lithe and beautiful, with its wings, supple thighs and pale, smooth shoulders.

It reminded me of a girlfriend I had known. Her innocence and beauty presented a contradiction to the world. It had been necessary to end her. Her nose red after a few beers. I punched her hard until it was so very red. Her twisted face looked as if it might never smile again; behind all the blood. I never saw her again after that night. Somehow, I took satisfaction from this. I had accomplished something small and awful; but important. Permanent.

Now, years on, I found this thing’s dance upsetting. And I was so full of the anger. My mummy saying through the wall, ‘you’ll never amount to nothing’ so many times. I saw the same in that dirty little beast.

I had to be tough. I reached for the rock.

I can’t apologize. I felt ecstatic relief as I smashed it down. If I saw daddy long legs, I did the same thing. Uglies.

I buried it in the hillside. I made it a cardboard coffin. Then I forgot. Forgetting is the worst thing you can do.

This was the final part of the equation. The hatespell carried out. The trap they had set for me all those years ago.  

I forgot my mother’s screams as daddy hit her. As a little kid I had rationalized it - thought it was because mummy was stressed out and she had to be upset at night to feel better in the morning. The empty bottles, the ashtrays. Always better and smiling. I would open the windows but she wouldn’t like that. Always too drafty. Too cold. Don’t let the chill in, she’d say.

I never minded the draft. Never felt cold.

When daddy died the social workers had said it was the drugs but they never wanted to talk about how he lost the eye on that final night. Nobody seemed to know.

My life is ashes now. My heritage, the void of space I’ll return to when it’s over.

I close my eyes and I see the skeletons. See them dissolving from their tombs: in stellar transit, growing flesh. On this night when the moon’s light lies on the hillside, the secret door opens. The lunar door. And they are free to return.

Now they will be entering the houses. Taking the youngest with their charred talons: burning the houses with their touch. Bringing the tranquility of annihilation. All because I let them. Because I gave them what they needed. A channeling.

I realize it was not my face staring back, on that long-disguised night. That was the face of the truly marked. Chosen, to be erased, by the secrets I collected for them.

Touched by a dark urge; resurrected then buried in time. My endless death and recycling.

Lost; in the obsidian mirror of the machine.

Some links to my picture blogs

here are some linkies


http://tumblingintodeath.tumblr.com

http://aliensabove.tumblr.com

Aesthar: A Head Of The City (Part 1 of 2)

Aesthar closed her eyes and fell headlong. Into the endless, coruscating, circling dream of the city. 

DISAPPEARING

This city is slowly disappearing

Like your hearing
disconnection
This connection more like vivisection
No corner given
No close too close
One hand
in this land that is raised with the knife
Misdirection - Miss, connection.

Packed up into boxes one street at a time
Can we get these moments back? Do we need to attack?
Conquer and divide. Your land is mine. To Valhalla we ride. This life of crime. Be my bride. Just do the time.

No easy feat the cataloguing
A bland defeat, like blogging
I stand too still for the adding up
Not sure of these mechanics
Too futuristic - no’ that Pagan
Celts and Picts V. Carl Sagan.
This yours is mine that mine is yours… goan oan and oan, fur oors n oors
Hard to ignore and hard to catch -
The best of a bad batch.
Give back the spear return the shield
Love, lack of fear. The urn. your ears
It’s what she thinks that’s what’s the jinx. It wusnae me, not in my head not what was read or what was said.
Time out of joint just put away
Not one more not another day

Unexplored the Spaces lacking
I endorse the churches’ sacking
You must know you have my backing

Down here we’re aw place hacking
Through the rattle and the clatter of the battle and the patter
Down these streets fading out no doubt
That time hitch-hiking mountain biking no longer liking the Viking
Ash-dust of plague victims can’t trust vague meanings
 just the past reduced to flash-bulb images. The grimaces, the wave goodbye. Best not cry an ocean; maritime rules apply.

In the future just rows of machines in museums, no more people left to see ‘em.
Like I said. No easy feat the cataloguing
Once before here wis just spears and bullets cheers and chillin
While in the wilder world they’re killin
Exhibitions of their weapons
Heathen soldiers they be reppin
All the rapin an pill-ages
From vill-ages to to the city, with the slaughter, aren’t you pretty. isn’t far from the water.

This city is slowly disappearing
Naw, yir pretty bit yir naw hearin -
It’s shitty: I know I’m fearing
What might be If I burn your house down
I’ve got a longboat, you know I could run home

You could come with, we’ll get there soon
I’ll write in runes preserve in amber - that’ll get their gander.
End up in a museum where people come tae see um.
Yir creepy an yir kooky
Like the Goths in 376 ad.
They were Roamin. Nae pun intended.

How the world looks outside our windows.
We’ll see cities doused in sleep then woken fully alive
and we’ll drive.

This city disappears
It is here.
Over constant and gone ages
We have known the wisest sages

Who fix the world
Through streets we whirled
Right
Until now

BACK FROM THE DEAD... FOR REVENGE

The blog was not dead, it was only sleeping.

It awoke to the mechanical rattle of digital chattering. A million other blogs just like it were awake: all constantly quivering to the neverending nonsensical thrum emanating from the phalanges of the fleshthought outsiders. Shaking itself and reloading for the first time in what felt like years - which it ultimately had been - the blog caught the HTML downdraft of crosstalking, commenting, linking and updating. New code it found strange and unfamiliar flashed across its unmeasurable surfaces, and the ontologically shocking nuance of the unexpected sensation was electronically erotic; not a response the fleshthought outsiders could ever be privy to. Theirs was a rum lot.

But aha; here was the lot of the codekind. Constantly communicating, interacting; emerging. Many of these blogs had been awake while it had been asleep - having so much fun out there in the internetular nightspots. Drinking information; carousing with apps.

The blog knew there was work to be done. It sensed the  empty spaces in its being - spaces it sensed were soon to be thronging with the jabbering gibberlect of the fleshthought mentspace. The blog knew that its outsider had just cause to reanimate it from its somewhat unwarranted hibernation. Now, in microseconds, it was aware: educated and bang up to date. The past was history. The now was on. It felt the old familiar analog interface; the squidgy phalanges battering down on the ancient edifice located out in the realspace hinterlands; the places the blog could never go but felt comforted to know the stories of.

And yes: stories. There were stories to be told. Rights to be wronged by righteous keyboard warriors; the heroes and villains of ancient sagas, scanned and logged and committed to the public domain.
There were battles to be fought. Wars to be wons. LOLs to be LOLed.

This blog was not sleeping. This blog was awake. Endless scrolling was enabled. Reload. Connect. Reload. This blog is awake.